Shakespeare's Scribe (15 page)

Our hired men's swords clattered onto the stony surface of the road—all except Ned Shakespeare's. “He's bluffing!” Ned whispered to the rest of us.

Jamie Redshaw gave him a look of disgust. With one flick of his walking stick, he knocked Ned's sword from his grasp. Then, wincing at the pain it caused him, he bent and laid the stick carefully on the ground.

“Gather them up!” the leader instructed his companions. When they had done so, he lifted the blade from Mr. Armin's throat and stepped away. “We meant only to relieve you of your money,” he told us, “but as you've put me to so much trouble, I believe we'll have the horses as well.”

Two of his men took hold of the sharers' mounts. The other two set about unharnessing the teams from the carewares. “Oh, gis!” I murmured. “They'll leave us stranded here!”

Jamie Redshaw nodded grimly. Part of me wanted to urge him to do something, to fight back. But I knew, that if he had made a move to do so, I would have tried to hold him back. Now that we had found one another at last, I could not bear to risk losing him.

The leader of the bandits reloaded his pistol, cocked it, and surveyed us prentices and hired men a moment. Then he stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun to Sal Pavy's head. “Which wagon has the money?” he demanded. Sal Pavy was rigid with terror. Tears streamed from his eyes. His chin quivered, but no sound came out.

“It's the rear one,” growled Will Sly.

“Thank you,” said the brigand, and showed his rotten teeth in a grin. “I didn't want any more trouble. I don't like trouble.” He uncocked the pistol, thrust it in his belt, and strode to the back of the nearest careware. But as he reached inside to seize one of the trunks, his hands froze in midair. An unaccountable look of distress came over his pockmarked features. He gave a hoarse cry and took a stumbling step backward; as though his knees had suddenly gone weak.

I was momentarily bewildered by his unexpected reaction. Then Sam's head emerged from within the wagon, and I saw what had alarmed the bandit so. Sam's face had a bluish tinge and was blotched with what looked like open sores. There were dark circles about his reddened eyes; froth flecked the corners of his mouth.

“Water!” he pleaded in a desperate, rasping voice. “Please! I'm dying of thirst!” He reached one shaking hand toward the bandit, and I could see that the skin of it was spotted, too, with red marks surrounded by blue-black patches.

“Saints save us!” I breathed. “‘A's taken wi' the plague!”

18

“
D
on't touch me!” cried the black-haired man. In his haste to distance himself from Sam, he collided with the cart wheel. The pistol fell from his belt, but he seemed not to notice. “Come away!” he shouted to his men. “Take nothing with you!” When they hesitated, he bellowed, “Now, you gawking gypes! It's the contagion!”

Sam had climbed out of the careware now, and was staggering about, begging for a drink of water. When he shuffled toward the bandits who were unhitching our horses, they bolted. The other two let go of the sharers' mounts and took to their heels as well.

Now that I could move without fear of being shot or stabbed, I hastened to draw a cup of water from the keg strapped to the side of the careware and held it out to Sam.

“Don't give him that cup!” protested Ned Shakespeare. “He'll contaminate it!”

“Then we'll get another,” I said. “Go on, Sam; take it.”

Sam turned his hollow eyes gratefully upon me and reached out for the cup. As his trembling hands closed over mine, I gave an involuntary shudder, wondering how much contact was required to transmit the plague from one person to another.

Instead of gulping down the contents of the cup, Sam upended it over his head. The water drenched his tousled, matted hair and coursed down his cheeks. The blotches and sores began to melt away and slough off, as though he had anointed them with water from the Grail. I blinked in astonishment. “What in heaven's name—?” And then the truth struck me like a fool's bladder, and I began to laugh. Sam gave a weak grin and abruptly collapsed in a heap on the ground.

“Help me get him back in the careware,” I said to Jamie Redshaw.

He stepped forward uncertainly. “But is he not—”

“Nay, nay,” I assured him, still laughing. “It's not the contagion. It's only face paint.”

As we lifted him into the wagon, Sam came to and murmured, “I gave a good performance, didn't I?”

“You played the plague to the life,” I replied. “Or should I say, to the death.” I wet a rag and gently washed the rest of the makeup from his face. “How did you ha' time to do all this?”

He gave me a shamefaced smile. “The truth is, I started on it well before the bandits turned up. I had planned only to play a prank on you and the others.”

“It would ha' been a cruel prank,” I said. “We were all anxious about you.”

“I just meant to give you all a good laugh and liven things up a bit. I'm sorry.”

“Well, considering how things turned out, I expect everyone will forgive you.” I put a hand on his forehead. “The fever seems to ha' broken. How do you feel?”

“As though my limbs were made of new cheese,” he said.

“Rest, then. You'll feel stronger i' the morning.”

The rest of the company had managed to lift the dead horse enough to pull Mr. Armin free. He was limping about, rubbing his bruised leg. “You're fortunate it's not broken,” said Mr. Phillips.

Mr. Armin did not reply. Though it was too dark to see much, he was staring out across the moor in the direction the brigands had gone. “We should have pursued them,” he said grimly, and put a hand to his throat as if feeling again the edge of the bandit's blade.

“How did they hide themselves so well?” asked Jack.

Jamie Redshaw, who was examining the clump of furze from which the thieves had emerged, flipped over one of the shrubs with his walking stick. “They cut some of the furze and covered themselves over with it. A clever tactic.”

“Men disguised by bushes,” mused Mr. Shakespeare. “I'll have to use it in a play.”

“We m-may as well c-camp here for the night,” said Mr. Heminges. “I d-doubt those brigands will b-be back.”

We pulled the wagons off the road and then used one of the teams to drag Mr. Armin's mare out of our sight. To my surprise, Mr. Shakespeare got out his travel desk and set it up next to one of the carewares. “You mean to work on the play?” I said. “Out here?”

“Ideas come to me as I ride along,” he told me. “If I don't capture them soon, they'll be gone, like those bandits.” He lit a horn lantern. “How is Sam?”

“On the mend, I think.”

Mr. Shakespeare shook his head. “One hardly knows whether to fine the boy for playing such a stunt or reward him for saving our lives.”

“Well, ‘a did tell me ‘a was sorry. Besides, as they say here in Yorkshire, all's well that ends well.”

Mr. Shakespeare smiled and played thoughtfully with the ring in his earlobe. “That's what they say, is it?”

“Aye.”

“It's a good line,” he said. “Let's give it to Helena.”

When we reached Leeds the next day, we were relieved to discover that neither the plague nor the mock players had been there before us. We were even more relieved to find a letter from Sander awaiting us. It did my heart good to hear his voice, which, even on paper, was good-natured and cheerful as a cricket. The letter was a long one, filled with anecdotes about what mischief the boys had been up to and with the latest news about events in London. He mentioned the plague only briefly, near the end of the missive.

Though the death rate is rising, it has not yet reached the proportions everyone feared. Rest assured that all of us here are in good health, aside from a touch of melancholy when we think of you, our absent friends. Mr. Burbage is providing well for us, but asks that you send a share of the box as soon as you are able. For my part, I value your letters more than any amount of money. Good fortune follow you or, even better, precede you.

Yrs. faithfully,

Alexander Cooke

I berated myself for not having written more often, and resolved to get a letter off to him that very evening if I could. Sander would, I knew, be nearly as pleased about my finding a father as I was myself.

My only cause for disappointment was that there seemed to be so little opportunity for Jamie Redshaw and me to discuss the dozens of questions, large and small, that still waited impatiently in the back of my mind, like some important role I had studied but had never been given the chance to perform.

More than anything else I wanted to know about my mother, but even in our rare moments of leisure I could not manage to pry more than a few sentences from him concerning her. It seemed painful for him, as though I were probing at his old war wound and not his memory. I concluded that he must have loved her a great deal, to be hurt so by the thought of her.

We spent a profitable three days in Leeds. Sam had recovered enough to play small parts, provided he rested between scenes. So he
would not feel useless, I gave him the book to hold while I took care of the more strenuous stuff. Jamie Redshaw volunteered to take on the task of gatherer. Though the money box must have weighed heavily on his injured back, he bore it without complaint. He went beyond the bounds of duty, in fact, calling enthusiastically to passersby, “Come in and watch the show! Only a penny to see the best that London has to offer!”

One might have thought that Sal Pavy would pitch in and do his part, but, as always, he seemed to consider anything other than acting to be beneath him. In fact, several times he went so far as to chastise me when a property was out of place, as though I were there only to assist him. It was all I could do to keep from assisting him onto the stage with the end of my blunted sword.

I tried hard to be tolerant of him, partly because I wanted to keep peace within the company, and partly because I felt guilty yet about having spied on him. Each time I recalled that path of stripes down his back, I felt a pang of pity that I would not, I am sure, otherwise have had.

To make
King John
more concise and swift-moving, Mr. Shakespeare had pruned most of the female roles, so Sal Pavy and I were conscripted as soldiers for the battle scenes. I spent every spare moment, of which there were few, working on my scriming skills, determined that, if I could not impress Jamie Redshaw with my ability to say lines convincingly, I would at least make a good showing with a sword—something a former soldier could surely appreciate.

Sal Pavy apparently did not consider swordplay a part of acting; for all the pains he took to perfect his delivery of speeches and gestures, I never once saw him practice with a sword or a singlestick. Sam explained this in a hilarious parody of Sal Pavy's well-rounded tones: “It's becauwse at Blackfriahrs, you see, we were not expected to engaige in such uncouth displaiys of aggression.”

Whatever instruction he had in scriming must have been minimal, for Sal Pavy's
stoccatas
and edgeblows were clumsy and tentative, not to mention badly aimed. Nor did he content himself with the moves we had rehearsed. When we were on the stage in the second act, locked in mock-mortal combat, he delivered an unexpected downright blow that caught me unawares and struck my shoulder. It made both of us look foolish—me for dropping my sword, he for standing there looking like a ninny instead of skewering me, as any self-respecting soldier would have done.

The moment we made our exit I turned on him, hot with anger. “Who taught you to sword-fight? Your maiden aunt? You nearly broke me collarbone out there, and I don't think you're up to playing me part as well as your own!”

“Oh, I don't know,” he said coolly. “It might be a considerable improvement.” To my surprise, he stepped up close to me and peered at my face. “Do you know,” he said, “I think you're starting to sprout a few whiskers.” Despite myself, I put my hand self-consciously to my chin. Sal Pavy clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “I wouldn't be surprised if your voice starts to go next.”

Though my reason told me not to rise to his taunts, my anger spoke to me in a louder voice. Reaching out, I seized the neck of his leather breastplate and jerked him nearly off his feet. “You'd like it, wouldn't you, an me voice or me collarbone cracked? Because then you'd be able to take over all me best roles, not just a few! I'll wager that blow out there was no accident at all!”

“Boys?” said Mr. Armin as he came off the stage. “Is something amiss?”

Sal Pavy opened his mouth to answer, but I was quicker. “Nay, nay!” I assured him. I let go of Sal Pavy and thumped the front of his breastplate. “Just adjusting his armor. It was chafing him.”

Mr. Armin nodded knowingly. “I see. You've taken care of it, then?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Good. We wouldn't want any chafing. Would we, Mr. Pavy?”

“No, sir,” said Sal Pavy, unable, for once, to quite get his cheerful-and-charming mask properly in place. When I was called upon to deal him a death blow in the next scene, I did it with more conviction than usual—in fact, with great relish. When I was alone behind the stage, I furtively examined myself in the mirror. To my dismay, I found that Sal Pavy was right. A few spindly hairs had made an appearance on my face. I plucked them out ruthlessly with a pair of tweezers.

19

U
rate room at one end that we put to use as our tiring-room. As we were changing out of our costumes, Mr. Armin noticed my mother's crucifix, which I had hung around my neck, and inspected it more closely. “That's a fine piece of work,” he said. “This is the cross that Redshaw says he gave to your mother?”

Something about the way he put it seemed to suggest that what Jamie Redshaw said was not necessarily what had happened. “Aye,” I said defensively. “‘A engraved her name on the back.”